


On Sleeping with Sherlock Holmes

by gaytectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Haunted Houses, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: “If I freeze to death in the middle of the night, I’ll haunt you,” John mutters.“Glad to know you’ll stick around,” Sherlock jokes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i got into a bed-sharing fic kick and had to throw in my two cents, so here's some cute shit
> 
> hugs and love to rachel [thatonewritergirl](http://thatonewritergirl.tumblr.com/) for being a bomb-ass beta and a great pal <3
> 
> i'll now be returning to the remaining chapters of All or Nothing !

**I.**

Before moving in with Sherlock, John had always figured that high-speed chases, seductresses, and super villains only existed in movies, but by the time they meet Irene Adler, it’s just a part of his everyday life. Wake up, make toast, accompany Sherlock to the home of a lesbian dominatrix and end up carrying him home when he’s drugged up. Make dinner. All that lark.

John somberly drinks wine on the couch, alone, with Charlie’s Angels playing on mute in the background. Sherlock has been out cold for hours and it’s really not the way John had wanted the evening to go. They’d been so much closer as of late—shockingly close, actually, and tonight John had planned on getting over himself and making a goddamn move. Instead, he’s checking in on his not-date hourly to make sure he hasn’t choked on vomit again. It’s really, very romantic.

He sighs and downs the rest of his drink, setting his glass on the coffee table. He rubs his eyes. It’s half ten now and he’s getting tired, but Sherlock still hasn’t come off the drugs. It would be stupid of him to go to bed now, but his eyes keep drifting shut when he isn’t paying attention and he’s getting whiplash from the number of time his head has jerked up and down. He shoves himself off the couch and stretches, trying to force himself awake. Pouting and drinking probably wasn’t the best plan, but Sherlock isn’t up to tell him he’s being an idiot, so how could he resist? He walks into the kitchen to start some coffee when he hears rustling and a crash from Sherlock’s room.

John sighs when he hears Sherlock frantically slurring his name. He must have tried to jump out of bed, then. John sets down his sad, empty mug and shuffles to Sherlock’s room. He finds Sherlock on the floor, squirming like an eel on land. He grins.

“Told you those ridiculous legs were good for nothing,” John says, snorting.

Sherlock manages to flip over onto his back and sit up on his elbows. “I’m on the floor,” he slurs, looking cross-eyed at John.

“Right job you did there.”

“Do I still have feet?”

“Barely,” John says. He crouches down and hoists Sherlock into a sitting position. “The sedatives fucked up your cognitive functions. It’s probably going to take a night’s sleep to get them out of your system.” Of course, he’s told Sherlock this about five times now, but he forgets every time he wakes up. “You’re going to have to go to the clinic tomorrow and you’d best not complain about it in the morning, because you have fair warning.”

“Not fair,” Sherlock pouts, attempting to stand. He falls sideways and John shoves his arms under Sherlock’s armpits to keep him upright. “I won’t remember.”

John helps him over to the bed and tosses him down. “Too bad,” he says, “now go back to sleep so I can argue with you again in an hour.”

Sherlock hums and shoves his face into his pillow and John sighs, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He takes Sherlock’s hand and turns it over, finding the pulse-point of his wrist and counting the beats as he stares at his watch. He tries to do the math in his head but all the numbers muddle together.

“You know what, you’re probably fine,” he says, yawning. He looks over at the spare pillow and the spanse of empty space in Sherlock’s unnecessarily large bed. It looks unbelievably comfortable and the sheets are fucking _satin_ , the luxurious prick. He sighs, pulls the duvet up over his idiot friend, and stands to leave, then frowns. What’s the point of going to his room or sleeping on the couch? He’s still going to have to get up to check on Sherlock. God knows he’d feel like shit if something were to happen and he couldn’t hear.

Feeling decisive, he shrugs off his cardigan and jeans and gets in bed next to Sherlock. At least now if Sherlock tries to choke to death in the middle of the night, John will hear it.

The booze makes it easy to fall asleep and he wakes the next morning—though it feels like only minutes have passed—feeling comfortably groggy. He stretches his legs and curls his toes. He tries to arch his back but finds himself weighed down by Sherlock’s head and one of his arms. The sight makes John’s heart ache longingly, even with Sherlock’s drool all over his shirt. One of his recurring fantasies is being acted out right in front of him and he’s afraid to move, lest it end abruptly. He takes slow breaths, staring at Sherlock’s unruly bedhead. The entire situation feels _right_. It feels like his purpose in life is to hold Sherlock Holmes in the early morning, curled up in bed and lit by the weak sunlight. It would be even nicer if drugs weren’t the reason this happened.

He reaches up and gently runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair—he smoothes down a cowlick, rubs his thumb over the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock sighs in his sleep and John smiles. It occurs to him that he really ought to check Sherlock’s vitals and he takes a deep breath, gearing up to end the fantasy.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I need you to wake up.” Sherlock groans and shoves his face into John’s stomach. John laughs, absolutely beaming. “Sher, are you cognizant yet?”

“That's a gross misuse of a great word,” Sherlock rasps out. He puts a hand heavily on his head. “God, my head is killing me. I haven't felt like this since—” He cuts off and John can feel him tense up. “Er. John, I—did I -?”

“You didn't relapse,” John says reassuringly. Sherlock had asked a few times last night in his stupor and John hates how guilty he'd looked, but simultaneously feels so _proud_ of how far Sherlock has come. He daringly puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, brushing his thumb over an outrageous cheekbone. “You did get drugged, though. That Adler woman.”

Sherlock slumps in relief and exhales softly. “I take it you stayed in my bed to monitor me, then.” He sounds almost… disappointed. John feels like he ought to stop touching him, but he hasn't moved away. It's an uncomfortable number of mixed signals so John just awkwardly moves his hand from Sherlock’s face to his shoulder.

“Yes, well. You made quite a sight of yourself yesterday. I figured it would be safer this way,” John says. He tries to keep himself from sounding defensive—it's likely they've got a long case ahead of them and he doesn't want to start the whole ordeal off with a tiff.

Sherlock just nods against his stomach. “Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“‘Course,” John says. He remembers why he woke Sherlock up in the first place. “I need to check your vitals. Can you sit up?”

“That sounds abhorrent.”

“Poor sick man,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, get up.” He gently nudges Sherlock off of him and helps prop him up against the headboard. Sherlock leans back willingly, looking a right mess. He's definitely fried, most likely dehydrated, and he's got to be starving, too. John grabs the stethoscope from the bedside table where he left it last night. “You know the drill,” he says, lifting the chestpiece to Sherlock’s trunk.

Sherlock breathes slowly and deeply as John moves the stethoscope over his chest and to his back.

“Sounds good,” John murmurs. He puts the stethoscope down and grabs his penlight, checking Sherlock’s pupils. They’re fully responsive, though Sherlock winces at the light. He puts it away and takes Sherlock’s hand, ignoring his own heart in his throat, and turns it over to check Sherlock’s pulse. It's faster than it should be, considering he just woke up, but it could be an after effect of the drugs. He glances up at Sherlock with concern and finds him watching raptly, lips parted. John swallows hard and tears himself away from staring at his best friend’s lips.

He clears his throat and drops Sherlock’s hand, trying to look nonchalant. “Well, you seem alright. I’m still making you go to the clinic to get checked out later.”

“I’ll argue when I’m not exhausted,” Sherlock sighs. He wriggles back down under the covers and gets comfortable, gazing up at John. He chews his lip and John looks at him curiously. “Would you… stay? To monitor me, obviously.”

John’s lips twitch up into a smile. “Obviously,” he echoes sarcastically. He settles down next to Sherlock, who puts his head on John’s chest and wraps an arm around him. John grins. “You could have just said you wanted a cuddle.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock mutters, kicking him. John laughs and kicks him back. The easy domesticity makes John breathless. His hand settles on Sherlock’s side, thumb rubbing circles into his shirt. “Thank you for staying,” Sherlock murmurs after a moment.

“Thanks for not dying in your sleep,” John replies.

“You’re welcome.”

“You, too,” John says. He smiles and lets his eyes drift shut.

 

**II.**

They solve the Adler case and put it behind them, leaving John full of what he now believes are unrequited feelings and a lot of pent-up sexual frustration. It feels like, for some reason, after Sherlock heard him proclaim that he wasn’t gay in a warehouse when faced with someone who ought to have been dead, some messages were misconstrued. He can’t _quite_ figure out why on _earth_ that might be.

He frequently, sadly wanks alone in his room, pretending he can feel Sherlock’s hands in his hair, on his chest, on his arse. Pretending his hand on his cock is actually Sherlock’s.

He takes a lot of cold showers. Sherlock takes smoking up again, which John hates. Not only does it mean that Sherlock is effectively giving himself cancer, it also means that the Adler case had more of an effect on him than John thought it did.

It’s easier when they take cases, and they’re in the middle of a murder-suicide locked-room mystery when Sherlock triumphantly bursts into John’s room around midnight. He hurries over to John’s bed and sits on the edge of the mattress.

“I’ve got it,” he exclaims, shaking his lock-picking kit in John’s face.

John leans back, raising a brow. “I’m so glad, I could have sworn you lost it,” he teases.

“Hush,” Sherlock says. He tosses the kit into John’s lap and opens it to dig around for the proper tool. John’s chest constricts and he squirms backward, trying to move his crotch away from Sherlock’s rummaging hands. “You remember what the inside of the safe looked like. No latches, no deadbolts—specifically so that someone _wouldn’t_ be able to lock themselves in there. It isn’t used enough for someone to be let out before a week has passed, so mechanisms were put in place to avoid accidents. But there _was_ a key-hole.”

“Okay,” John says, briefly forgetting about his non-existent sex life, “so… what, did he have a key?”

“No key on him or the other body or anywhere else in the room. But he did have a small eyeglass screwdriver,” he says, holding up the slim tool he finally found in his kit.

“The one he used to kill her,” John remembers.

“Precisely,” Sherlock says, looking enthralled. “He locked the door from the inside using the screwdriver and probably a safety pin or paper clip.”

“Seriously, you can do that?”

“It’s difficult, but it can be done. I was practising downstairs, look.”

He takes the screwdriver over to John’s bedroom door and kneels down in front of it. John follows, watching over Sherlock’s shoulder as he picks the lock in reverse—or, rather, watching the little bit of his tongue that sticks out between his lips while he concentrates, the soft crinkling around his eyes, his extremely deft hands.

The lock clicks and John comes back to himself, swallowing down thoughts of what else Sherlock’s hands would be good at. “There, see?” Sherlock says proudly, shaking the locked door handle. “He would have done it just like that. Murder her, kill himself, over and done until the next time someone opens the vault.”

“Lovely,” John comments, rolling his eyes. “Unlock it then, so we can run off to see Lestrade.”

Sherlock hums in agreement and gets back to it. It seems to be taking him longer than usual, John thinks, when the lock makes an unfortunate noise and Sherlock’s little screwdriver snaps.

Sherlock’s hands still. “Uh oh,” he murmurs. John’s eyes widen and his throat clogs up. Sherlock jiggles the handle again and purses his lips. “That. Did not go as planned.”

John groans and covers his face with his hands. “Are you serious? It’s almost midnight, we can’t get a fucking locksmith here!”

“We’ll be fine, we just need Mrs. Hudson to come up here with a screwdriver to get the handle off,” Sherlock says calmly. “Have you got your phone?”

“It’s on the coffee table downstairs, I forgot it when I came up earlier,” John says. He blanches. “Do you have yours?”

“I… left it on the floor when I ran up here,” Sherlock admits.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” John says. “You’re serious? We’re stuck up here until someone notices we’re gone?”

“We’re supposed to be meeting Lestrade. He’ll notice our extended absence.”

“ _When?”_ John exclaims.

“Soon. Probably,” Sherlock adds, sounding doubtful. “At least within the next two days.”

“I’m breaking the door down,” John declares.

Sherlock stands and puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “Calm down,” he insists. “He won’t notice my lack of texts but he’ll certainly notice yours. Let’s just settle in and wait for them to show up.”

“What, you're going to stay in my bed?” John asks anxiously. His mind goes back to the first time he shared a bed with Sherlock—it was under such different circumstances; Sherlock wasn't even conscious of his own thoughts or actions and John was thinking of him as a patient, not his friend or ridiculous crush. Now they're both awake and sober and Sherlock is proposing spending the night with John and it's extremely likely he's going to wake up in an uncomfortable position that's going to require a lot of explanation.

“Of course, I'm not going to sleep on the floor.”

“You ought to,” John says, trying to sound vindictive instead of pathetic, which is hard when he’s almost wholly focused on the way Sherlock’s hands feel on his shoulders, heavy but gentle and warm.

“You can shove me out of bed once I’m asleep,” Sherlock promises, rolling his eyes.

“You know you can’t smoke up here if you don’t have any cigarettes, right?” John tries, giving it a last-ditch attempt.

“How ever will I survive the next few hours, dead asleep, without a smoke?” Sherlock asks sardonically, raising a brow. He drops his hands and John sighs, officially giving up. Anyway, it’s not like he doesn’t want it, he just doesn’t want Sherlock to know that he _does_.

“Well, I’m going to sleep now,” John mutters, “so just… keep quiet.”

“I’ll join you,” Sherlock says, sliding off his dressing gown.

John clenches his jaw to keep down his rising blush. “Fine, yeah,” he says. He walks over to his dresser, rifling through to find a t-shirt. He usually sleeps in his pants but that’s obviously not the best decision, so he grabs a pair of pyjama bottoms, too. He’ll probably overheat in the middle of the night with the extra clothes and Sherlock’s added body heat, but it’s a small price to pay for his already-lacking dignity.

Awkwardly secluding himself to the corner of his room, he changes quickly, ignoring the feeling of Sherlock’s eyes on him—which he’s sure isn’t imaginary, considering Sherlock’s total lack of boundaries. He goes to the bed when he’s finished, climbing in next to Sherlock and reaching to turn off the lamp immediately. He hunkers down, tugging back some of the covers that Sherlock has already happily stolen.

“If I freeze to death in the middle of the night, I’ll haunt you,” John mutters.

“Glad to know you’ll stick around,” Sherlock jokes.

John laughs softly and feels his frustration slip away. “Well, I think you’re my only option at this point.”

“I’ll choose to take that in a positive light.”

“You should—the fact that I’m still here even though you break my bedroom door and steal all my sheets probably means I’m in it for good.” John cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth and he has to fight the urge to get up and climb out the window. He was worried about waking up with his dick against Sherlock’s arse and then he goes and does _this_ instead?

It’s quiet for a minute.

“You’re not upset at me?” Sherlock asks, sounding uneasy.

John’s fear dissipates and he exhales the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “No,” he says, smiling softly. He puts a hand on the mattress between them invitingly, because why not continue to try and cock this up with feelings? “No, I’m not upset. I do think you’re an idiot, though.”

“Oh, good,” Sherlock murmurs. John can hear the relief in his tone. “I think you’re an idiot, too.”

He inches his hand toward John’s and their fingertips overlap. John’s heart crowds his throat. He moves his hand forward and wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s gently.

“Night, Sherlock,” John whispers, unable to raise his voice any higher even if he wanted to.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock murmurs. His thumb brushes John’s gently and John smiles, relieved, as he falls asleep.

 

**III.**

After Lestrade lets them out in the morning and they close the case, the dynamic of their relationship has definitely changed. John isn’t sure why—he’s trying to deny the fact that it might have been the hand-holding in bed, mostly because he’s afraid that if he asked about it Sherlock would run off like he usually does when John tries to have an important conversation with him.

Still, it’s hard to deny that, especially when faced with Sherlock’s sudden overload of touching; John’s shoulders, his back, his hands—his face, once, when he gets distracted and Sherlock feels that the best way to re-route him is to gently pat his cheek and manoeuvre John’s head around as he pleases.

The worst part about it is they have a few slow weeks after their last case. Nothing interesting comes in, and John has long since left his clinic job, so while Sherlock solves cases through email to pay the rent, John has nothing to do but count exactly how many times Sherlock’s fingers brush his when they hand each other things and ruminate on whether or not the movement is purposeful. He feels like a really shitty relationship detective.

Their actual detective work resumes with the prospect of a, “real, live haunted house,” according to the email. John thinks it barely sounds like a two, but Sherlock is over the moon the moment they get it and insists that he and John go check out the scene.

Apparently, three teens in a row have been killed while staying in the house. John is convinced that it’s a carbon monoxide leak and Sherlock is about to get them killed too, but Sherlock has other ideas.

“Even if it is just carbon monoxide or asbestos, we won’t know until we get in there,” Sherlock insists. “Besides, there could be someone inhabiting it and killing people. That’s far more interesting.”

“Right, let’s go stay the night in a house built a hundred years ago and let someone stab us while we breathe in a cubic tonne of asbestos,” John says, frowning at Sherlock.

“Sounds smashing,” Sherlock agrees.

John tosses his hands up in frustration. “Fine, but if I die—”

“You’re haunting me, yes,” Sherlock says. “Although I hope you realise if we both die you won’t be able to haunt me.”

“No, I will,” John insists, shaking a finger at Sherlock. A smile grows on his face. “I don’t care if we’re both ghosts, I’ll follow you around and nag you until we die a second time.”

Sherlock grins. He grabs John’s coat from the rack and tosses it at him. “Deal. Hurry up and grab whatever you need, we need to get over there before Lestrade realises we’ve snuck in.”

John’s smile fades and his frown returns. “Seriously? You didn’t tell him!”

“Of course I didn’t tell him, he’d think we were going to get killed.”

John groans and stomps off to his room to grab his gun. If anyone’s dying tonight, it’s not going to be him.

They head to the haunted house around seven that evening and the cab driver, after reading about the murders and deciding that he’s a sane person, won’t drop them in front of the house, bar none. Instead he drops them a few blocks over, forcing them to trudge through the cold to the admittedly skeevy house set way too far back on the lawn. The expanse of dead grass and shitty cobblestone definitely adds to the old, creepy aesthetic, but John isn’t convinced that anyone is using the place as a lure to kill curious teenagers.

He passes a dust mask to Sherlock and they gear up as the cross the lawn. The door is unlocked when they reach it so they step inside, closing it with a loud creak behind them. John winces at the echoing click throughout the dusty foyer. The house smells mildewy and rotted, and John doesn’t step forward for fear of the floorboards crumbling under his feet. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care and takes off into the hallway, leaving John scrambling to catch up.

“Be _careful!”_ John hisses, grabbing Sherlock by the sleeve of his coat. “You actually _are_ going to get us killed.”

“By what?” Sherlock asks. He doesn’t whisper and his voice dominates the echoey room, magically not muffled by the mask. “The house is completely decrepit but it’s structurally sound. What, are you afraid a ghost is going to hear us stomping around and swoop down to scare us to death?”

John scrunches his face up. Sherlock is right, but he really doesn’t want to admit it. “Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbles.

Sherlock smirks and gestures for John to follow him. They wander through the hall to the sitting room; it’s lined wall-to-wall with windows that nearly reach the ceiling. The glass is frosted over and the light that shines through casts an eerie blue sheen over the sheet-covered furniture.The room is trashed; it’s clear that more than just three teenagers have spent a good deal of time here.

The sitting room leads them to another hallway with a lofty staircase and a few closed doors.

“I’ll take the rest of the downstairs,” Sherlock says. “You take the up. Call me if you find anything.”

John nods and starts up, pausing on the third stair to watch Sherlock disappear through one of the doors. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up the rest of the way. There are only two doors at the top so he takes the first, using the flashlight on his phone to light up the room. It’s a plain little room, probably used to be an office. Papers are strewn all over the floor; it looks like the bottom of a rabbit’s cage.

He shuts the door and opens to the next one, which turns out to be an old master bedroom. It’s much cleaner than the rest of the house. Practically untouched, aside from a tipped over rubbish bin and rumpled sheets on the bed. Something about the cleanliness makes it harder for John to step inside. He takes a deep breath and trudges forward, gazing around. It’s gloomy, dusty, and uninteresting. He sees another door. It opens into a bathroom, just as dark and disgusting as the rest of the house.

John sighs and wanders back out of the bedroom.

“Sherlock?” he calls, trodding back down the stairs.

“Kitchen!” Sherlock replies.

John huffs. “I don’t know where that _is_ ,” he mutters. He squints at the three doors in the hall and picks the second one. It opens to a dining room, which has an open archway into the kitchen. He smiles, pleased with himself, and walks in. He finds Sherlock halfway inside a cupboard, arse up in the air, and leans against the doorframe to watch.

“Nothing upstairs, as far as I can tell,” John says. “Or nobody, I should say. Two rooms, one bathroom. I didn’t see any mould or termites, but I’m sure you’ll want a second look.”

“You know me too well,” Sherlock says. He recedes from the cupboard with a cotton swab in a plastic baggie. “Nothing terribly interesting down here, either. Sitting room, dining room, kitchen, spare bedroom, bathroom. All empty, all absolutely filthy.”

“And you want to stay the night here,” John comments, raising a brow.

“It’s filthy, not unlivable,” Sherlock says, looking up at him.

John blushes and tries to look like he wasn’t casually staring at Sherlock’s arse. “That explains the constant state of our living room.”

Sherlock snorts. “Yes, that’s definitely it,” he murmurs. He puts the baggie in his pocket and stands, brushing the dirt off his knees. “Nothing to do now but wait.”

“It’s barely eight,” John says, “how long are we supposed to stay here?”

“As long as it takes,” Sherlock says, shrugging.

He reaches up to task off his mask and John steps forward and smacks his arm. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean this place isn’t riddled with asbestos. You’re already on the track to lung cancer, let’s not speed it up.”

Sherlock gives him a put-upon sigh and crosses his arms. “I quit,” he says. He hesitates. “Again.”

“Yeah, two weeks ago. Give it a few years before you switch to a new source of carcinogens.”

“Fine,” Sherlock mutters. He adjusts the mask, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, I can’t think of a single part of this house that isn’t covered in rubbish and cobwebs, so we’re probably going to have to clear out a spot for the night.”

“Actually, the bedroom upstairs is pretty clean,” John says, pointing up. “Bit creepy, but you can see the floor.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks. He furrows his brows and nods toward the hallway. They head upstairs and John points at the bedroom. Sherlock leads the way, scanning the room when they walk in.

“That’s odd,” he murmurs.

“I thought so, too,” John says.

“You didn’t mention it.”

John blushes, trying not to think about Sherlock’s arse. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“Nothing, that’s not the point. Why do you think it’s so clean?”

Sherlock squints, looking around. “The reports didn’t say in which part of the house the teenagers were each found,” he says. “I’d bet they were all found here.”

“Christ,” John murmurs. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“Makes sense,” Sherlock says. He pulls a little torch out of his pocket and shines it around the room. “Other than the lack of bleach smell.”

“Bleach is no good on carpeting.”

“Not in large amounts, no, but there would most likely be some in the carpet shampoo. The odor tends to permeate and it would stick around in carpeting. It’s practically a floor sponge.”

John chuckles. Sherlock turns around and raises a brow at him. “Sorry,” John says, grinning, “sorry, just—‘floor sponge.’ Not very scientific.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Child.”

“Says the child.”

“Nice grade-school comeback.”

“I try my best.”

They grin at each other behind their masks. “Two hour watch shifts?” Sherlock suggests.

“You think either of us are going to sleep in that bed?” John laughs. “God only knows how old it is and I have a feeling those teenagers were doing more in this house than tossing back a few drinks.”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose. “Lovely visual. Still, you’re _you_ and even if you don’t get in the bed you’ll probably fall asleep standing up.”

“At least if I fall asleep standing up I won’t wake up with bedbugs in my pants.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Sherlock asks.

John purses his lips and sighs through his nose. “I guess I’ll just sit on the floor. If I fall asleep, I fall asleep.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, you know what they say; when in an allegedly haunted house with a madman who convinced you to stay the night there, be ridiculous.”

“Is that your version of, ‘when in Rome?’” Sherlock asks.

“See, you’re catching on,” John says, patting Sherlock’s arm. He walks over to the far wall and lowers himself to the floor, squirming around to get comfortable. Sherlock follows, sitting down beside him. “What are you doing?” John asks.

“You know what they say; when in an allegedly haunted house with a stubborn—”

“Alright, I’ve got it,” John interrupts, smacking Sherlock’s chest playfully. “You have your watch alarm set?”

“Two hours have started,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be sure to keep the ghost from getting you.”

“How generous,” John murmurs. He leans his head back, letting his eyes fall shut. It’s easier to start drifting off than he expected it would be; between the dark, the silence, and the shockingly plush carpet, he gets surprisingly comfortable. He’s almost asleep when Sherlock speaks again.

“Why does it matter to you whether or not I smoke?” he asks.

John opens his eyes and blinks a few times, trying to force his thoughts back together. “Er, you mean besides the obvious?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” John echoes. He rubs his eyes. “You’re my friend, Sherlock. I know chemistry is more your field, but just about every doctor on the planet agrees that smoking causes lung cancer, and that’s not something I want to see you go through.”

“You wouldn’t have to stick around,” Sherlock murmurs. “You wouldn’t _want_ to stick around.”

“Of course I would,” John says, feeling defensive. “Anyway, why are you thinking about this? Shouldn’t you be figuring out how a non-existent ghost is killing people?”

“I’ve already got that figured out,” Sherlock says, flapping a hand dismissively. “Why would you stick around?”

“What, you’ve already solved the case?” John asks, sitting up straighter.

“Well, I’ve got a theory, I just need to prove it,” Sherlock says. “Not the point—why would you stick around?”

“Because I care about you,” John huffs. “Why else?”

“You can care about someone and not slave away at their bedside while they’re dying.”

“Why are you talking about this?” John insists.

“I’m just trying to understand,” Sherlock says. “You constantly bring up my proclivity to stray toward less than healthy practises, like you’re trying to guilt me into being a better person for your sake, but I don’t know _why_.”

John scoffs, letting his head fall back against the wall. “You’re my best friend, Sherlock—my _only_ friend. You matter to me more than anyone else, I—I don’t know what else to tell you.”

He does, of course, but sitting on the floor of a shitty old English Tudor isn’t where he wants to pour his heart out to someone who clearly doesn’t get it.

Sherlock goes silent.

“You’d really stay by my side even if I contracted an illness that’s almost completely preventable just because I’m stubborn?” he asks after a moment.

John sighs. “Of course, you dolt.” He puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock’s hand covers John’s. “I’d stay with you, too,” he murmurs.

John’s heart pounds and he gazes up at Sherlock, who’s staring at their hands intently. Maybe he’s got it wrong; maybe Sherlock _does_ understand pouring his heart out, he just doesn’t think that that’s what John is trying not to do.

“Sher,” John murmurs. He turns his hand over and touches each of his fingertips to Sherlocks.

Sherlock breathes in sharply. “Yes?” he whispers. He glances away from their hands and directly to John’s lips.

John shivers. He doesn’t know how to phrase what he wants to ask; has he missed everything? Is he reaching for something that isn’t actually there? Does Sherlock want him to make a move in this putrid house and tug off their masks and lean in to -

There’s a loud shattering sound downstairs and Sherlock jumps up suddenly. “That was sooner than expected,” he says breathlessly. He reaches down and pulls John up by the arm.

“You know, you could actually let me in on the plan sometimes,” John grumbles, trying not to give away how disappointed he is.

“That wouldn’t be nearly as productive,” Sherlock says, raising a brow at him. “Come on, we’ve got to catch him.”

He grins and dashes out of the room and John shakes his head, his disappointment dissipating, and runs to catch up.

 

**IV.**

The bloke illegally living in the ‘haunted’ house is arrested on three counts of second-degree murder and John is completely unable to focus while Sherlock gives his deposition in court. It’s his punishment for not involving Lestrade in his own investigation, but John’s pretty sure Lestrade just made Sherlock do it because he’s tired of presenting evidence that he didn’t gather.

John sits near the back of the courtroom and stares down with glossy eyes at Sherlock in the witness stand. His right hand is raised and John blurrily fixates on it, continue to stare at the empty space it leaves when Sherlock lowers it again.

He’s still thinking about what happened in the house. Mostly the way Sherlock stared right at his lips for at least five seconds. Maybe more. It had to have been more. He can’t remember. He keeps painting it in a romantic light and exaggerating it. It was probably just a second or two, but that’s the fucking problem—he can’t stop thinking about it, going back and forth, completely undecided on what to do about the situation.

Sherlock has been absorbed in preparing his deposition; he hates speaking in front of crowds so he’s been a frantic mess since they headed home from Scotland Yard a week ago, trying to organize his eclectic thought process into a cogent argument. John wouldn’t think of trying to add anything extra to that mess, so he’s been over-thinking himself into oblivion.

“—my associate, Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock says, pulling John out of his thoughts.

He sits up straight, trying to look professional rather than lovesick. Everyone briefly glances in his direction, then back at Sherlock, and John lets his shoulders slump again. Shit. He should probably be paying attention. He tries to listen to Sherlock’s rationale for breaking into private property, but slowly zones out again, watching Sherlock’s lips move.

The rest of the deposition crawls by and John only catches bits and pieces of what he vaguely remembers experiencing. It’s so much less interesting when Sherlock explains it this way—he prefers the more exciting versions that Sherlock tends to tell him in private.

After what feels like years the court is dismissed and John rises, dazed and tired, to meet Sherlock and head home. They meet up in the lobby like they agreed to do that morning and John smiles at Sherlock as he walks up.

“How was it?” Sherlock asks. He looks like he’s trying to lean toward nonchalance, but he sounds more like an anxious wreck.

“It all made perfect sense to me,” John lies. It probably would have, if he’d paid attention.

Sherlock visibly relaxes. “Well, then anyone should be able to understand it,” he teases.

“Har har,” John says. He gestures toward the door. “Shall we?”

Sherlock smiles and nods, leading the way out. They catch a cab and sit in silence the whole way home. John lets his hand sit on the seat in the space between them, childishly hoping Sherlock will do the same. He just looks out the window contemplatively, and after a while John takes his hand back, sighing.

When they get home they eat leftover take out and both go to bed early. John climbs into bed It’s almost laughable how exhausted he is just because of his emotional turmoil, and yet he spends half the night tossing and turning. He crushes his eyes closed, covers his head with a pillow to drown out all the creaks and cracks of the building settling. He tries lying on his side for the first time in a decade, but he still can’t fall asleep.

Although, part of the reason for that is that his room is bloody _freezing_. He even pulled out an extra blanket, but he can’t stop shivering.

At around one in the morning he sits up, grumbling and shaking, and goes to check the thermostat. It’s at its normal setting. He huffs and walks over to the window. It’s shut and locked, but he can feel cold air leaking in from somewhere. He crouches down, rubbing his leg. He squints.

There’s a hairline fracture in the window frame. He can barely see it, but the air blowing against his face makes it pretty obvious. He stands and frowns, trying to decide what to do. He needs to turn off the thermostat so they don’t throw their rent out the window along with the hot air, and he’s not going to be able to sleep in the cold.

He could stay in Sherlock’s room.

It’s _reasonable_. It’s not like he’s lying to get in bed with Sherlock. He’ll lose his toes by morning if he stays in his own room.

He doesn’t need to convince himself—he’s pulling on his dressing gown as he runs the weak rationale through his head. He shuts off the thermostat and walks downstairs, shuffling to Sherlock’s room without hesitation. He shuts the door soundly and slides into bed, sighing in relief at the warmth.

“John?” Sherlock murmurs. He half-sits up turns to look over at John, squinting.

“There’s a crack in my window,” John whispers. “My room feels like the back of the fridge. Can I sleep with you?” He winces. “In—in your bed, I mean.”

Sherlock nods and flops back down, turning over to face John. “You don’t have to ask,” he says, eyes falling back shut.

John stares at the curls sticking out every-which-way on Sherlock’s head. “Thanks,” he murmurs, smiling softly. He takes a deep breath, hunkering down and getting comfortable. He drifts in and out, getting more and more tired as the warmth returns to his feet.

“You were distracted earlier,” Sherlock murmurs.

John peels his eyes back open and looks over. Sherlock is gazing at him sleepily. “Busy week,” he says. “You were distracted, too.”

“Different reasons.”

“I’m sure,” John murmurs. He starts to drift out again.

“What were you going to say to me in that house?” Sherlock whispers.

John’s eyes fly open. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to sound unconcerned.

“You started to say something to me when we were staking out the house,” Sherlock clarifies. “It—what was it?”

John swallows hard. “It wasn’t important,” he whispers. “It was a week ago, anyway. Go to sleep.”

“You’re the one who woke me up,” Sherlock mutters.

“I can go back to my room,” John offers, starting to get up. He wouldn’t, of course—if anything he’d go crash on the sofa, but Sherlock’s bed is so much more comfortable. This just isn’t the best time to start a pretty important conversation that John isn’t sure he can ward off in his completely exhausted state.

“No—stay,” Sherlock says, putting a hand on John’s arm.

John’s heart pounds in his ears and he settles back down, taking in the heat of Sherlock’s fingers on his arm. Somehow, that one gesture is more convincing than all the warning sirens blaring in the back of John’s head. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he whispers, already hating himself for saying it.

“Yes, you were,” Sherlock says, frowning at him. “You started—”

“I wasn’t going to _say_ anything,” John repeats. He feels his face heat up. He _really_ shouldn’t, but he can feel the words crawling up his throat. “I was going to—do something,” he admits, barely audible.

“What?” Sherlock breathes.

John huffs. “I was going to do—”

“ _What_ were you going to do?” Sherlock interrupts softly. He tilts his head closer to John.

John exhales shakily, eyes widening. The fucker _knows_. He knows and he’s been waiting for John to make a move since the haunted house—god, maybe even _before_. He realises how much he’s been misinterpreting—Sherlock’s reaction at the warehouse wasn’t over Irene Adler, it was over John shouting that he wasn’t gay. The touching, the bed sharing, it was all Sherlock trying to feel out where John stood on their relationship, and John feels like an idiot for sitting around all week pouting like a smitten idiot.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, putting a hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock frowns, looking confused. “What for?”

“I didn’t know,” John murmurs. He shifts himself closer to Sherlock and leans in, nudging his nose against Sherlock’s and kissing him. Sherlock gasps softly against his lips and John’s pulse skyrockets. It doesn’t feel real; half of him is convinced he’s about to wake up in his frosty room, alone, but at the same time Sherlock is kissing him back, pressing up against him, making soft noises into John’s mouth and convincing him of the opposite. John brushes his thumb over Sherlock’s jaw and sighs softly, smiling.

“I forgive you,” Sherlock whispers, beaming.

“Yeah, well, I expect an apology, too,” John teases, brushing his nose over the arch of Sherlock’s cheek.

“What for?” Sherlock asks, raising a brow.

John kicks him gently. “You _did_ know and you didn’t _say_ anything.”

“I didn’t know for sure until just now,” Sherlock points out. “I had a theory, though.”

“Oh, come off it,” John laughs. “You guessed.”

“I don’t guess,” Sherlock pouts. “I needed to test a theory. I started in the haunted house, and your body language and tone were beginning to point toward the outcome I was expecting, but we were rudely interrupted by a murderer. I decided to finish out the experiment just now.”

John smiles pleasantly at him. “You guessed,” he repeats. “You _wanted_ me to react positively, but you had no idea whether or not I would.”

Sherlock’s lip twitches. “I may have jumped to a few conclusions, but—”

“You wanted to so bad for me to react positively that you ignored one of your most valued principles?” John asks. He bats his eyelashes cartoonishly and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, okay, we’ve established that I have feelings for you,” he huffs, hiding his face in John’s neck.

John grins a skin-splitting grin and wraps his arms around Sherlock, hugging him close. “I have feelings for you, too,” he murmurs.

“I got that,” Sherlock mutters.

John can feel Sherlock’s lips move against the skin of his neck and his heart flutters. He starts laughing, burying his face in Sherlock’s hair. “We’re fucking idiots,” he giggles.

Sherlock laughs softly, shaking against him. “Yes, I think we are.”


End file.
